


give me shelter or show me heart

by marlahey (imperfectandchaotic)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I have never written smut in my life, but here we are, so a self-imposed challenge with kris turned into this massive thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectandchaotic/pseuds/marlahey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s got a couple orders to fill. Stiles makes hers last so she has to linger longer; it’s a silly thing to do maybe, but he’s always been a bit of a selfish thing.</p><p>(or the coffeeshop au that somehow no one else has written yet)</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me shelter or show me heart

**Author's Note:**

> so when kris and I were discussing prompts for the fest I remember thinking, 'I haven't written an au since my very first fics (which were terrible high school ones don't judge me pls). I should challenge myself. I've also never written entirely in Stiles' POV.'
> 
> kris: 'there is no stydia coffeeshop au you should do one.'
> 
> Cut to about five days after prompting when I was filled with SO MUCH REGRET. Nothing sounded right or in character or plausible and I hadn't been that stuck since mid scene in chapter three of my novel, which is still sitting unfinished. But then kris showed me an 'all about being a barista' tumblr post and then my other friend kris (therentyoupay) sent me tons of info, and finally it started to get somewhere. 
> 
> and then it didn't stop going. 
> 
> so please enjoy 11k of what's probably a very unrealistic version of working in a coffee place — my apologies to any baristas out there for mangling what is a very difficult and underappreciated job.
> 
> (any recognizable dialogue is obviously not mine — I just couldn't resist a canon callback.)

 

 

_“Welcome to Beacon Hills Coffee, what can I get you?”_

_“Can I get a medium nonfat latte to go, please?”_

  _“No problem, can I get your name?”_

  _“Excuse me?”_

  _“For the order?”_

  _“Oh. right. Lydia.”_

 

 

  
*

 

 

The year that Lydia starts coming to Beacon Hills Coffee is probably the most stressful year on the job that Stiles has had in the four odd years he’s worked here. Scott and their most regular rush shift partners, Malia and Kira, have gotten used to sliding out of the danger zone (i.e - the front counter) every time Lydia walks in and Stiles has to hurtle himself across whatever distance – the pastry cabinet, the sinks, the stock door – to be the one to serve her.

There is a tiny tally under the back sink for how many times in a row he’s taken and made her order. It gets wiped every time she comes in and is served by someone else (when the rush is crushing and he's in the middle of making four orders so it can't be helped); Stiles is always in a foul mood for the rest of shift, snapping at whoever misplaces the french press or reorders the drizzles, so everyone avoids it as much as possible.

Their current record is 24.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s her fourth time in (medium non fat latte, exactly one and a half packets of the blue sugars), when the tip jar (‘Feeling tipsy?’ it asks, which is one of his better puns) clangs for the first time that morning as he’s tossing her receipt. Stiles looks up automatically and catches her eye. His surprise must show on his face – her cash is always precise down to the penny, even before he reads it out – because Lydia lifts an eyebrow.

 It’s only 75 cents, but his chest is warm all of a sudden.

Stiles struggles for something non-moronic to say. “Thanks,” he settles on finally after a pause a touch too long, and Lydia just nods, her smile faint and polite. He finds himself flushing anyway. Stiles wants to read into it (she’s never tipped him before) but that would probably err on the side of weird and creepy, so he holds back.

“Coming right up.”

He’s got a couple orders to fill. Stiles makes hers last so she has to linger longer; it’s a silly thing to do maybe, but he’s always been a bit of a selfish thing.

 

 

*

 

 

“Just strike up a conversation dude, it’s not that hard – you talk to our regulars all the time.” 

Scott’s expression is a familiar mix of boyish earnestness and fond exasperation. Stiles frowns at him over the edge of the sanitizer as he fills it with clean water. “I know,” he says, feeling oddly reluctant to confess to this simple failing. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

(The day before, attempt 7 at saying anything to Lydia besides taking and filling her usual had been a complete disaster.)

“It’s because she’s stunning,” Malia deadpans. She steps over the bucket, fresh pastries balanced carefully on a tray, and nearly (but never) clocks Stiles in the head with her favourite combat boots. “And probably really smart. You’re intimidated.” She says it like she’s describing the weather; Stiles can’t decide if he should be insulted or not.

“Who wouldn’t be intimidated by a girl who carries around textbooks on quantum physics at seven thirty in the morning?”

Malia shoots him a look. “Maybe a boy who asked her about the textbook instead of just staring at it and deciding he had nothing interesting or of note to say? You’re not an idiot, Stiles. She’s not beyond or above you just because she might study advanced science and math.”

Despite the definite dig, Stiles is touched.

“I love you, you know that?”

Malia swipes at the back of his head with the now empty tray. “I’d love you too, if you weren’t about to soak the floor.”

Stiles glances down. “Fuck.”

 

 

*

 

 

“I told you yesterday Jackson, I have a paper due. I’m not coming out tonight.”

Stiles pauses mid-pull of a croissant. He stands there with it dangling from his tongs, taking in the pinch between Lydia’s eyebrows as she frowns with phone next to her ear, her bag hanging from her elbow, and textbook in the crook of her arm. 

It was a fool’s dream to think she might be unattached; Stiles is also a fool to think he has some claim over her because he serves Lydia coffee three times a week, but some small, sad part of him can’t help but be disappointed.

Though Lydia always looks beautiful, there is something soft and muted in her oversized grey shirt and leggings, in the absence of three inch heels with worn in boots in their place. Her makeup looks different too – softer, somehow – though Stiles would need Kira or Malia to really explain it to him.  

She looks tired.

Though Stiles wouldn’t never have the nerve or lack of tack to say that to her face.

“Stiles?” 

Scott jolts him out of his thoughts, looking down at him with the name pen in hand. Stiles starts, straightening to plate the croissant and hand it to the elderly gentleman waiting patiently on the other side of the counter.

“Here you are, Mr. Greenberg.”

The man smiles, glancing over his shoulder to look at Lydia, just behind him in the line and still listening to her phone, that frown stuck on her face. He beckons with a hand and Stiles leans closer. “Poor thing looks exhausted,” the man says, and Stiles feels an odd relief at having his own thoughts echoed aloud. His longest regular holds out a ten dollar bill. “Buy her drink for me would you?”

This doesn’t happen often. Usually the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season will remind the odd person of goodwill and kindness forgotten in the other ten odd months of the year, but Stiles is all too happy to break tradition in the middle of April.

“You got it, sir.”

Mr. Greenberg winks at him as he takes croissant and turns towards his tea at his usual window table. Stiles takes a steadying breath and turns towards Lydia.

“–have to go, Jackson. I’m next in line.” She glances up to Stiles, and winces in apology. He makes a pacifying gesture and wipes studiously at the counter. “Because it’s rude to be on the phone when someone is serving you. Goodbye.”

She hangs up – Stiles thinks he can hear shouting through the phone as she does and has to try not to frown – and looks at him. “Sorry about that.”

“No worries,” he says, and picks up a medium. “Your usual?”

She’s been coming in for a month now (the tally – broken by Isaac when Stiles was off sick – is steady at 8 and climbing) so he can at least say that without feeling weird. Lydia nods, but as Stiles turns away for the pen, she calls, “Wait.”

He’s suddenly extremely nervous for no reason whatsoever. _She’s changing her mind idiot, not moving to Canada – and it’s not like she’d ever tell you if she was anyway–_ “Could you make that vanilla?”

Stiles nods automatically. “Of course.”

He punches in the order, berating himself, nearly forgetting until Lydia is reaching for her wallet. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”

She stops to look at him and it throws him abruptly back to their first meeting. He says, almost frantically, “Mr. Greenberg.” Stiles nods over to the man, and watches as her expression of surprise and vague suspicion melts away. “He’s uh, one of regulars, too.”

The curve of her cheek is pink as she smiles down at her wallet, putting it away. “I’m a regular, huh?” she asks. Stiles swallows.

 _I hope so._ “If you want to be.”

Her forehead creases, as though she’s unsure how to respond. “Thank you, Stiles.”

 _She knows your name she knows your name she knows–_ ”Anytime.”

And then Lydia turns away to approach Mr. Greenberg, extending her hand and accepting his invitation to sit.

He gets to call, “Vanilla latte for Lydia,” for the first time; she lifts a hand to wave at him as she leaves and it’s the best part of his day.

 

 

*

 

 

Two to three minute increments of time three times a week start to add up. 

Slowly but surely, Stiles gets to know Lydia Martin.

(He learns her last name the next time she comes in, flashing a smile and a warm, “Morning Mr. Greenberg!”

“Miss Martin!” The old man’s eyes crinkle; there is a fondness in the curve of his mouth that reminds Stiles very abruptly of his mother; the rush of missing her is sharp in his throat. “My day is so much brighter now that I’ve seen you.”)

Stiles learns that Lydia is indeed studying advanced sciences and math (“A Fields Medal is the one I’ll be winning”), that she has a tiny dog named Prada (“Like the designer handbag”), and that her best friend Allison is doing a year abroad in France (“She has a long family history there”).

He learns that she’s never seen Star Wars.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

He gapes at her from across the counter. Lydia just shrugs, looking mostly bemused. “So wait,” he says, still waving her empty, unmarked medium to go cup in one hand, “You’re telling me that you know how to make a _molotov cocktail,_ but that you’ve never seen one of the most beloved and renowned cinematic journeys of our time?”

She tilts her head, eyebrows furrowed. He thinks she’s secretly laughing at him but he can’t be sure. “A cinematic journey though? Is it really?”

“Yes!”

She’s really going to laugh at him now; Stiles turns away before he can subject himself to it and let butterflies replace the hot coils of indignation in his stomach. “I can’t even look at you right now – your coffee might take an extra three minutes.”

The tip jar clinks and Stiles pretends that’s the sound that makes his ears go warm.

 

 

*

 

  _"You at least have to have a favourite childhood movie."_

_"My grandmother and I used to read The Little Mermaid all the time."_

 

_"You read that movie?"_

 

_"It was a book first."_

 

_*_

 

 

It's nearly May when Stiles' perfectly crafted balance of real life and silent, once-a-morning-three-minute adoration of Lydia Martin comes crashing down.

"Actually," she interjects as he's in mid reach for the name pen, and that irrational and ridiculous pinch of anxiety from so many weeks ago rears its' ugly head again. "Can I get it to stay?"

"Um."  _Get your shit together, Stilinski._ "Of course you can." He pushes his glasses further up his nose in nervous habit; Lydia had done a double take as she came through the door and he hasn't been this self-conscious since middle school. Autopilot has him taking her (always exact) cash, only half paying attention to what his hands are doing while his mind still reels.

Suddenly the time beyond 3 minutes feels like it could be forever.

"Take a seat wherever you like."

 

("I forgot to get new contacts," he says, before she can comment, not sure why he feels the need to explain himself but so aware of this even minute change in their silently agreed-upon comfortable routine that the words just come tumbling out of his mouth as she moves up to the counter.

Lydia tilts her head, something soft and considering in her gaze and it seems so quiet all of a sudden, even in the midst of their usual morning rush.

"I like them," she says. "They suit you.")

It's like something in his brain has malfunctioned. Stiles can't remember where the mugs are, can't remember how to balance the tray properly so nothing tilts; Kira's eyes narrow in confusion at him from her spot at the register. _Okay?_  she mouths, and he nods, though even that motion is half-assed and distracted.

His entire first year of closing shifts and spending hours with Scott practicing over the back sink are about to come to fruition.

If his hands can ever stop shaking.

"Stiles."

Kira's fingers are warm against his, firm as they still his hands enough that they can remember what to do. The fern takes shape; Stiles lets out a breath. "Thanks."

"You've got this okay?" She catches his eye, warmth rising from the tray sat between them on the countertop. "She likes you, you don't need to prove anything."

Stiles glances over Kira's shoulder at Mr. Greenberg's usual table, where the man has welcomed Lydia with a delighted smile. He's due to leave any minute now, Stiles knows, to catch the train and pick up his granddaughter for preschool. It is a routine known and understood through years of interaction and friendship; Stiles wonders what changed in Lydia's routine to cause her to linger for the first time. He wonders if he even has years with her to learn the answer.

The thought makes his chest hurt.

"She has a boyfriend," he reminds Kira, whose expression has become infuriatingly knowing.

"Oh I remember," she says loftily, tossing a clean rag to rest over one shoulder. "But she doesn't just come in three times a week for our coffee, Stiles. It's just not that good."

Stiles frowns. "I should probably resent that statement."

"Resent less," Malia interjects, scooping up Lydia's tray with what looks like absolutely no effort, and all-but shoving it unceremoniously into Stiles' hands. "Serve more. Hurry up, lover boy. The rush can't wait for your sap, okay?"

He wants to protest, but he's shepherded through the open side edge of the counter and there isn't time for it. Scott, pulling a muffin, flashes him a grin and a thumbs up. His friends are unbelievable, really. Stiles doesn't know what he'd do without them.

The distance from the counter to the corner window table has never felt so long and so short at the same time.

"Medium nonfat latte," he announces at the approach. He is close enough to Lydia for the first time to see tiny stray strands of hair dangling free from her bun at the nape of her neck. It takes a concentrated effort to drag his eyes away as she turns her head to look up at him, smiling. "Two sugars. Well, one and a half, but I figured I'd let you do that."

Lydia's surprise is familiar at this point, but there is something almost like fondness beneath it that makes Stiles' heart beat a little faster still. Mr. Greenberg's grin is knowing – knowing like Kira's and Scott's and Malia's and Stiles should be concerned probably, right? That they all seem so invested in his not love affair with this girl he barely knows? – across the table. "Observant one, isn't he?"

She glances up at him, a fleeting look through her eyelashes, and down at her coffee. "Talented, too."

He needs to leave before he self combusts. Stiles runs a hand up the back of his neck. "Enjoy." He reaches for Mr. Greenberg's empty cup and saucer. "Can I take that for you?"

The man claps a surprisingly strong hand on Stiles' shoulder as he rises, reaching for his coat. "Only if you promise to keep an eye on my beautiful friend here while I'm gone."

Stiles nearly doesn't dare look at her, but she's like a magnet, or a planet, or a galaxy, and he's drawn in helplessly. She has that ' _I'm a regular?'_ softness in her smile, looking down at her latte again, trailing her fingers around the rim. He takes in the sight of her in the long, clear edges of the cafe window (she's a piece of art, a wordless moment in time, the person for whom all of the most beautiful and true songs are written) and feels his breath get caught somewhere in his chest. 

"I'll do my best, sir. Give my best to little Arden."

Mr. Greenberg's gaze is warm; it's a look his dad gives him, sometimes. Stiles swallows hard. The man nods almost gravely at him before pulling on his coat, waving at the counter. "Have a good day, kids!"

"Bye Mr. Greenberg!" comes the well-rehearsed chorus from Scott, Malia, and Kira. The bell at the front door clangs and the man disappears into the morning crowd. Stiles steels himself to look down at Lydia again. He is acutely aware of three sets of eyes searing into the side of his head. 

"Let me know if you need anything else?"

She's smiling at him again and he doesn't know what to do with himself. "I will, thanks."

He has to force himself to walk back behind the counter at a normal pace. 

Lydia stays for nearly an hour, reading a book he can't see the title of and gazing occasionally out the window. Stiles can only be grateful that the day is grey outside so she can't see his reflection looking back at her every ten minutes to see if she's still there. 

 

 

*

 

 

A new routine begins to knit itself into the fabric of Stiles' life. Twice a week, Lydia takes her usual latte to go with a smile, a fleeting conversation, and a "See you soon!" that Stiles hangs onto until he sees her again. But once a week, he gets to deliver coffee to the corner window table and endure the morning slam with Lydia's profile in the glass and her occasional smile to carry him through. 

Slowly but surely still, Stiles gets to know Lydia Martin in a new and quiet way.

He learns that she only drinks vanilla lattes when she's stressed or run down, that she stirs in her sugar with military precision (four times clockwise, three times counter) that she bounces her knee when she can't focus and bites the inside of her cheek before making decisions (highlighter colours, which textbook to pick up next, whether she really needs another coffee) and that she hums under her breath sometimes as she reads. 

When the place is in a rare moment of quiet, Stiles finds that last one particularly distracting. 

He's even seen her boyfriend, once or twice, dropping her off at the door and never coming inside. Stiles is oddly smug about that, or grateful – that this place is hers, (or theirs) and she'll never share it with anyone besides Mr. Greenberg. 

One morning, Lydia bursts in, a whirlwind of hastily tied up hair and ink smudges on her wrists and hands and one, oddly enough, on her collarbone, that Stiles can't stop staring at.

(He thinks, briefly like an inhale, that he'd like to kiss each one.)

She catches his gaze from across the cafe; there is something frenzied in her eyes that makes him want to brace himself. 

"Hey," he says as she strides up to the counter. "What's–" 

"Would you hate me if I camped out here today?"

 _I could never hate you,_ is his first thought. He has to swallow the words back. "Not at all."

Lydia's shoulders shrink, relaxing, and Stiles tries to smile encouragingly. "Big deadline?"

She nods, glancing back to see her and Mr. Greenberg's usual table free. She takes a breath. And another. "Yeah. This is what I get for doing a double major and having to take spring _and_ summer classes." Lydia turns back to look at him, her smile sheepish and exhausted. "I'm sorry. Good morning."

He can feel a dopey grin coming on. "Good morning." Stiles waves away her wallet. "Go and sit down, get settled. Pay me later."

She's going to protest – he can see it in her eyes – and points emphatically at the table. "Vanilla latte coming up."

The tip jar clatters. "That doesn't count," she tells him, pointing a finger in what he imagines is supposed to be a stern expression. "You're getting payment in full for at least three lattes." 

He can't stop smiling. "Go study."

There is something oddly thrilling about watching Lydia in her scholarly element, leaning over the page as loose hair falls to frame her face and catch the light. It could be longing, this feeling in the pit of his stomach, but that is a profound and scary thought for before eight in the morning, so Stiles puts it aside while a fresh wave of customers commands his attention.

"Non trivial zeros and zeta functions," Stiles reads over her shoulder some two hours later. She looks up gratefully at a fresh coffee. His fingers itch with the desire to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear, but Stiles just manages to contain himself. "Definitely over my head."

"A degree in Criminology isn't going to be anything to scoff at either," she retorts, and Stiles flushes. 

"There's no Fields Medal for catching bad guys," he says, and she smiles at him like she knows she's won.

"You're right. A Medal of Valour is just way more badass."

He has that urge to flee again. "Shouldn't you be studying?"

She laughs and Stiles thinks, if he could just hear that sound every day for the rest of his life, he'd die a happy man. 

 

 

* 

 

   
On the first truly sweltering day of summer, Lydia walks in wearing a pale floral sundress and Stiles nearly drops the new carton of milk. Next to him, in the midst of production and surrounded by coffee and tea, Malia lets out a slow whistle under her breath. "Damn," she says, and Stiles catches her watching him. "You're so fucked."

She's right of course, but Stiles straightens before Malia can see the truth of it in his face. He's not quick enough to hide it from Lydia however, who's already standing at the counter, dark sunglasses perched on her head. 

"What?"

 _You might just be the most beautiful person I have ever seen_. Stiles' heart jumpstarts when he realizes that Lydia is still waiting for him to say something. "N-Nothing! You–"  _Come on, dude._ "You look nice today."

Lydia's mouth opens faintly in surprise. She blushes and butterflies riot in Stiles' stomach. "Thank you."

He scrubs at his hair with one hand. "You're welcome."

Malia, blessedly (or cursedly, depending on the day) breaks the moment, grinning as if she hadn't just been eyeing Lydia from behind the counter moments before.

"Lydia!"

The other girl smiles brightly. "Hey, Malia. How's it going?"

"Can't complain," Malia says, her own smile sharp and vaguely wolfish. "But I'm telling you now..." She brandishes a clean teaspoon at Lydia. "As much as I like you, if you order a frappe before I'm even finished making all the coffee this morning, I might have to kill you."

Lydia laughs. "Well I guess you're in luck then – I'm more of a straight iced coffee kind of girl anyway."

Malia nods in approval. "Excellent."

She disappears into the stock room, leaving Stiles and Lydia truly alone in the cafe for the very first time. 

"No Scott or Kira today?" Lydia asks lightly. Stiles has never been so aware of someone watching him as he pulls out fresh mugs and to go cups, lining the rims up so all the paw prints face out. 

"They usually don't come in for another twenty minutes," Stiles says, ducking down to check the icebox – the heat brings people in absolute droves. "You're actually the very first person in here today."

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "Well don't I feel special, then."

He grabs a clear to go cup for iced drinks before he can say anything ridiculous like,  _I think you are._ "So an iced latte then?"

"Do you have almond milk by chance?"

"We do, as a matter of fact." Out of habit, Stiles takes special care with his first order of the day, presenting it with a flourish a few minutes later. "Medium iced latte with almond milk for Lydia."

"You're the best," Lydia says with a smile, dropping change into the tip jar. He can feel a blush rising up his neck

"You don't have to do that, you know," Stiles blurts before he can stop himself.

"Do what?"

He flushes at Lydia's perplexed expression. "Tip every time." Stiles rushes on, because  _well, it's happening._ "I know you like to pay with exact change, so you're...going out of your way to tip, and I–" She's starting to frown and Stiles almost stops short. "I don't want you to feel like you have to. Tip."

There is a long pause. 

_Oh my god she hates you she is never coming back–_

"You're ridiculous you know that?" She's properly glaring at him. "I don't tip because I feel obligated, Stiles. I love coming here. You guys have a great place, you make great coffee, and–" Lydia glances down at the counter; his heart roars in his ears. "I like talking to you."

"So–" He's probably imagining the faint blush in her cheeks. "So I'm going to keep coming, and I'm going to keep tipping, and you're just going to have to deal with it, okay?"

All Stiles can do is look at her, a familiar and somewhat frightening feeling rising in his chest and making it hard to speak.

"Okay."

 

 

*

 

 

And then, one day, Lydia doesn't come in at all.

Stiles keeps staring at the clock as his shift drags by, moving through the morning mostly through muscle memory and his friends, handing him cups and pressing buttons on blenders for him as anxiety riots in the pit of his stomach. The gathering of storm clouds outside are just mirroring his darkening mood.

"It's fine," Scott assures him, although it's not working at all. "She's probably just sick. Or maybe she has a crazy exam coming up and she's just at home studying."

"She wouldn't study there," Stiles says, frowning. "There's been construction outside her place all week. She told me last time she camped out."

"No Miss Martin today, boys?" Mr. Greenberg asks as he makes his way up to the counter. Stiles throws Scott a pointed look, who just throws his hands up in surrender.

"I guess not," he replies, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible, and the man offers him an understanding smile. 

"That's too bad," Mr. Greenberg says softly. "I guess we know where the sun's gone this morning."

Stiles lingers at the end of his shift a few hours later, but Lydia never shows.

He finds himself wishing he could call her; he hasn't yet worked up the nerve to ask for her number and is somewhat afraid he never will.

 

 

*

 

_"Should we do something?"_

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"I think he's doing that obsessive sugar count again."_  

_"Probably."_

_"As in we should do something?"_

_"No, as in he's doing the sugar thing right now."_

 

_*_

 

Three days later, she reappears.

Stiles is on a self-imposed ban from the register, trying to keep his focus on blends and ice and calling out names that are not hers and generally not moping. Kira handles all the frappe orders for him because he hates making them, and he shows his appreciation by presenting her with a Pikachu latte on her break. 

"Just be glad no Pokémon have appeared here yet," she says, brandishing her phone. "We'd probably have to make signs and everything."

"Who am I to dissuade young future Pokémon masters and gym leaders?" He grins. There is something so comforting about how easy and familiar this is: work that he enjoys with friends he loves, that he could almost forget the idea of a girl that he may or may not be in sort of love with. 

Almost.

"Lydia!"

Stiles counts to three in his head before he looks up, because his mind can be a cruel thing when it wants. But there she is, pulling sunglasses away from her eyes and smiling tiredly at Scott. Lydia's back.

And suddenly the sun seems bright again. 

"Hey Scott," she says, and it takes everything in him to continue making the drink he's halfway through. Stiles hands it to a boy whose twin is already holding his own drink, says, "Have a good one," and has to take a deep breath before he can look over at the register again. 

"Long time no see," Scott says. He glances over to Stiles, who picks up a blender and pretends it needs cleaning. "I'm sorry Lydia, I just have to run and grab more ice– hey, Stiles!"

Stiles looks up then, cool as you may, and Scott gestures at the register. "Cover me a sec, would you?"

He's never loved his best friend more than he does in this moment. Stiles wipes his hands on a clean rag and moves as naturally and professionally as his thundering heartbeat will allow. Scott's clapping him on the back and moving away and it's almost as if he hasn't spent the last four days missing her like you might miss music when you lose your headphones – feeling weirdly empty and quiet even though the world is still so loud.

"Hey," he says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. He wants to ask  _where did you go?_ but Lydia's looking at him like she's not quite sure what to say either, which causes his anxiety to press even harder in his gut. 

"I've been really sick," she says, without preamble. It's part relieving and part annoying to know that Scott was right. "I've been holed up in my apartment for days, but I just..." Stiles is afraid to look at her and have his face give him away. "I just wanted to let you know. I haven't been having a secret affair with another coffee place."

Lydia smiles, and that's enough to get him to, as well. "Glad to have you back," he says, before he can stop himself.  "Feel any better?" 

She shrugs, pushing her hair back with one hand. "A little. I think I'm going through withdrawal, if you can believe it. I thought if I just got out of the house and got some fresh air, it would help."

"Is it?"

Lydia glances at him, and away again. "I think so."

He shouldn't be blushing, but his body is just hell bent on throwing him under the bus today. "What can I get you?"

"A green tea?" Lydia tilts her head to consider the menu for the first time in a very long time. "Coffee is probably a bad idea, don't you think?"

Stiles shrugs. "I drink enough coffee from working here that it's probably an even split with blood in my veins. I'm probably not the best judge."

Lydia laughs and everything is right with the world again. It's ridiculous, isn't it? That a single sound can dramatically alter everything about his day? "Tea, please. I think I'll sit for a while."

"Coming right up."

Malia pokes him in the side before he can breach the counter.

"Just don't skip over there, okay?" she says, but there is affection in it. "You're gonna make us all look bad."

 

 

*

 

 

Summer turns into fall. Stiles gets into all of his senior Criminology courses and manages to snag Supernatural Lore as his very last elective, all whilst miraculously being able to maintain his regular work schedule. Lydia starts to come in more often and stay longer; if anything, she seems more stressed than she had during the previous two semesters. Jackson drops her off less and less, a detail that Stiles determinedly does not bring up, because he really doesn't want to be That Guy.  

It doesn't stop Kira from keeping track, though. She marks a tally next to Stiles' underneath the back sink, and Stiles should feel badly, really, at the disproportionate rate of 'Jackson' and him, but he doesn't – that is a selfish thought he'll keep to himself.  

And then the front door chimes.

He starts to say, "Hi," but even that doesn't make it past his lips as Jackson breaks the threshold of Beacon Hills Coffee. Stiles can't decide if he should speak, if he even  _can_ , because Jackson doesn't even look at the counter, just takes one quick glance around the room to find Lydia at her usual table, head down and pen in hand. There is something dark in his expression; Scott catches Stiles' eye from across the back counter, but doesn't speak –  _not yet,_ is the silent signal. 

Stiles looks at Lydia and picks up an empty glass that doesn't need to be wiped clean. 

"Lydia," Jackson says, and there is something in her eyes when she looks up at him that makes Stiles put the glass down. 

"Jackson." Lydia drops her pen and pulls her earbuds out. "What are you doing here?"

"You show up with enough cups from this place for me to figure out that this is where you hang out." He says it like an accusation. 

"I didn't realize you were still keeping tabs on me," Lydia replies icily. "What are the words you used? 'Deadweight in your life', was it?"

Stiles has to wring the rag in his hands to himself from moving. 

"We're not done," Jackson starts, but Lydia cuts him off sharply. 

"Oh, I think we are. You made that pretty clear last night."

Jackson leans over the table, smacking his hand down on it. Stiles is halfway around the counter before he even realizes his feet have moved. "My key, Lydia. You still have it. I want it back."

The pain in Lydia's eyes is there and gone in a flash. "Well I don't have it now. You'll have to wait until I get home and find it." She looks down at her book. "Goodbye, Jackson."

Jackson opens his mouth again, but Stiles steps forward before he can speak. "Unless you're going to buy something," he says, though even that small concession is bitter in his mouth, "I think you'd better leave."

The other boy fixes him with such a venomous look that Stiles nearly balks. He imagines what Jackson must see in his dark rimmed glasses and plaid shirt and slight frame, but the sight of Lydia sitting small and quiet at the table hardens his resolve. Jackson looks from him across the cafe to Scott, who Stiles knows without looking is wordlessly backing him up. They're fortunate, he supposes, that Malia's gone for lunch – she's thrown iced coffees at lecherous customers before. Stiles isn't sure what she'd do with a personal attack on a friend, but he's glad he doesn't have to find out. 

Not today, at least. 

"Fucking bitch," Jackson mutters, turning away. Stiles jerks forward, halted only by Lydia's fingers, grabbing his wrist and gripping tight. He's never punched anyone before, but he'll gladly break that streak today (and hopefully this asshole's nose). Jackson blows back out the door. Lydia doesn't let go of Stiles until he's turned the corner of the street and disappeared. The points of contact on his wrist feel electrified as he looks down at her and struggles for something to say. 

"You okay?"

She looks up at him with her eyes bright and full of unshed tears; Stiles' heart leaps up in his throat. Before he can speak again she is out of her chair, brushing gently past him and whispering, "I'm sorry," as she disappears past the front counter and down the hall to the restrooms. 

Stiles stares at the empty space of her chair and then up at Scott, whose expression is equal parts pity and understanding. He clears Lydia's empty mug and saucer for something to do and makes a new one, timing it carefully against the faint sound of running water they can always hear from behind the counter. By the time Lydia returns to the table, there is a foam panda waiting for her and Stiles is studiously making espresso for the young couple that has just ordered. 

He can feel her eyes on him. Stiles can't decide if it's better to look up or simply just let her have a moment in private, but that magnetism of her is always pulling and his eyes drag up nearly of their own accord. Lydia's smile is sad, but there is an almost gratitude in it that makes him confident enough to offer her a small one in return. By the time a lull returns to the cafe, Lydia is absently stirring the remnants of her latte and staring out the window, a small frown on her face.

It takes him several minutes after clocking out to work up the nerve to approach her again. "Hey," Stiles says cautiously. He steadies himself with a hand on Mr. Greenberg's usual chair. "Can I sit?"

Lydia glances from him to the chair, as if she's only just noticed that it's been empty all this time. "Sure."

Stiles slides into the seat and looks across the table, where Lydia seems a lot further away than a foot or two. He glances over her shoulder at the young couple he'd served earlier, gazing into each other's eyes with their feet just touching beneath the table. Stiles wonders if he and Lydia look that way to passers by: young and in love and temporarily unburdened by all the hardships of day to day life.

His heart clenches with how much he wants that, but his selfishness is tempered by heavy reality. _She's just broken up with her boyfriend – don't be a jerk_. 

"You know what's awful?" Lydia says suddenly, and Stiles starts. Wisely, he doesn't say anything, just gazes back as Lydia's eyes find his. "I'm pretty sure I'm still in love with him."

Stiles' chest aches again but there is something jealous in it this time, something abruptly hot and angry that is difficult to swallow past. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to say something he'll regret – part of him knows he shouldn't speak at all. It's not his place, but Lydia has never looked so small – so not the sharp and brilliant girl he thinks he might know – so Stiles takes a breath.

"You can't help that," he offers, and prays it's the right thing.

A smile has never broken his heart before, but the one Lydia gives him just about does it. 

"I'll see you later Stiles, okay?"

She rises, still the most graceful thing that he's ever seen. Stiles gets up too, reaching out a hand to put on Lydia's arm as she reaches for her wallet. "Last one's on me," he says softly. "Don't worry about it."

Her eyes are wet again. "Thank you." Lydia laughs brokenly and Stiles has never wanted to hurt another person like he wants to hurt Jackson. "I should get going – don't really need anyone seeing me cry."

"You–" he starts, and has to finish when she looks up from pulling on her coat. "You shouldn't care about people seeing you cry."

Lydia goes very still.

"Why?"

There is something so vulnerable in her expression that he can can hardly breathe to get the words out.

"Because– Because I think you look really beautiful when you cry."

Even before Lydia steps forward, even before anchoring one hand on his chest and leaning up to kiss his cheek, before Stiles' entire being narrowed to the cool press of her lips on his skin, before she slips out of the cafe with a tentative wave of her hand, he knows.

He knows when she looks at him then that this is the moment that he's truly in love with Lydia Martin, and everything else will just be After.

 

 

*

 

_"She kissed me–Ow! What the hell?"_

_"Shut the fuck up."_

_"On the cheek Malia, god. You think she's just gonna go planting one on me seconds after some jackass treats her like that?"_

_"Of course not. But you can't seriously tell me you didn't imagine it for like, half a second?_

 

 

 

_I thought so."_

 

_*_

 

 

The fourth time in a week that he walks past her playing with a key hanging around her neck, the words just slip out. “He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”

Lydia looks up abruptly. “Excuse me?”

Stiles wishes desperately that he wasn’t holding a tray full of half-empty mugs and dirty plates, and that Kira wasn't currently whirring the blender on another experimental blend mission, though there is a cowardly part of him that is grateful for the shield. The crush of the morning shift is over and Lydia is the last person in, but he still feels so exposed, somehow. “Jackson,” he says. He regrets it immediately as Lydia flinches. “I just– I just know you’re an amazing person and he doesn’t deserve you if he’s going to be an asshole like that.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “And what do you think it is that you know about me exactly, Stiles?”

 _Don’t do it,_ he thinks. _Don’t pick a fight with her._ “Lydia–”

"No really Stiles," she interjects, pushing a textbook away from her and turning more fully to face him. "Tell me. What do you know about me that qualifies you to have such an opinion?"

It's a dare more than anything; there is thin anger in Lydia's eyes, in the pinch of her frown, but beneath that there is a vulnerability, a hesitation, a suggestion of a someone afraid and unsure. Maybe that's what does it — the realization that Lydia might not actually see what he sees — because a rush of something hot and sharp (indignation? anger?) surges up, spilling the words out of his mouth.

"You always have a vanilla mocha on a bad day."

Lydia's mouth falls open. But something has shaken loose inside Stiles and the thoughts he's kept silent and sacred inside his head for so long just keep coming. "You hate group projects but Danny asked you to so you're doing it, even though every time you have to go to a meeting you always pick apart your banana bread before you eat it. You told me you're still mad at your mom sometimes for what happened with your dad, but you always take her calls." 

She can't meet his eye anymore. He can't tell if that a good or bad thing. 

The blender's stopped. When had that happened?

"You're probably the smartest person I've ever met in my life." Stiles exhales a laugh, a hollow, self-deprecating sound. "D'you remember the first week you started coming in here? You had a quantum physics textbook with you and I was so intimidated that I could barely talk to you."

"Stiles..." But Lydia trails off, just looking up at him through her eyelashes. He nearly just stops right then and there, but there is an urgency now in his chest.  _She has to hear this. She has to know._

"I _know_ you, Lydia. I know that sounds crazy and—" The truth is out before he can think to take it back. "—and maybe I've had kind of an insane crush on you for months now, but that doesn't even matter. What matters is you are not the kind of person that should even give a dick like Jackson the time of day. You're so incredible and you just deserve to know that, okay? Not just for you— for everyone around you who gets to have you in their life and be better for it."

Stiles is aware of himself getting louder the way you know something's about to hit you— when it's too late. "And to think– to think you don't know that just makes me go out of my freaking mind."

Taking in full breaths is hard. What's harder still is looking at Lydia, whose expression has shuttered closed. 

"Goodbye, Stiles."

It feels like he's been slapped.

She's gone before he can even really process that it's happened. Stiles turns his head automatically towards the counter, but Kira too has vanished, though whether that's out of respect or pity is unclear. Stiles thinks he sees the red of Lydia's hair flash in the sun as she turns the corner, but then he blinks and it disappears. 

He's really alone now; even Lydia's coffee has gone cold.

 

*

 

There is a bitter taste in his mouth that has Stiles trading shifts with Isaac for five days straight.

 _She hasn’t been in,_ Scott texts him, but somehow that makes it worse. He hasn’t worked closing in almost three years; Derek, their manager, figured out quickly enough that Stiles’ ADHD and general spastic nature served them all better during the early morning, so the quiet of the dark night is jarring and lonely in stark comparison.

It’s his penance, Stiles thinks grimly as he pulls up chairs and stools in the last ten minutes of official opening hours. There is something aggravating about the monotony of closing tasks, which only allows his mind to inevitably circle back to Lydia.

_Mr. Greenberg asked about you._

Shame – that’s the bitter feeling. But even that realization draws no comfort.

It’s not that Stiles regrets what he said – it’s the truth, after all – but Stiles is haunted by the betrayal he found in Lydia’s eyes when he dared look. He is no better than Jackson, letting his own feelings overtake him regardless of the way it may have affected her. She didn’t need his confession, nor probably, did she want it, but Stiles had selfishly let it out anyway. The loss of her is heavy, the weight of it compounded by the fact that not only has he fucked up his friendship with Lydia, but now Malia, Kira, and Scott have probably lost her as well.

It’s shit, really.

The chime of the front door pulls him from his pity party, though Stiles can’t decide if it’s more annoying than a blessing. Who would want a coffee at 11 at night?

“I’m sorry,” he starts, dropping the mop back in the bucket and lifting his head, “But we're just about–”

Lydia stands just beyond the threshold of the door; the rest of Stiles’ sentence dies on his lips. She fiddles with the edges of her scarf, but when she lifts her eyes to his, Lydia’s gaze is steady.

“You never work this late,” she says. It sounds part accusation, part question. Stiles wishes desperately he was still holding the mop so he’d have something to do with his hands.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to Isaac all this time,” he replies, only half joking. “He hates me.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “He seems to think it’s the other way around.”

The slightly-real betrayal must show on his face because she laughs. “The only times I’ve spoken to Isaac were when I came in and he was covering for you.” Lydia’s expression sombers. “I’ve been seeing him in the window a lot this week.”

Stiles thinks of Scott’s text. _She hasn’t been in._ He scrubs anxiously at the back of his head. “I–” he starts, and falters. “I uh, wanted to give you space.”

Lydia face screws up in bemusement. “Stiles, this is _your_ work. This–” She drops her gaze and Stiles’ heart clenches; how long is it going to take them to be able to be safe to each other again? “This place is yours.”

 _But it isn’t just mine anymore._ He wonders if he’ll ever just be able to say these things to her without having to reel them back. “Lydia–”

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, and Stiles wants to laugh suddenly – he’ll never get an apology in first, it seems. “I’m sorry I was so awful. You were just being a good friend and I–”

He starts forward before he’s even aware that he’s doing it. He wants to touch her so badly that the feeling gets caught in his throat; he needs to make it okay; he needs to make sure that she’s real, that he isn’t just imagining this entire thing like he has before in a terrible nightmare that leaves him panicked and wide awake for hours in the night.

Stiles has never felt so much for a single person in his whole life and quite frankly, it’s terrifying as fuck.

At least, that’s how Malia put it yesterday.

Lydia stops talking and just looks at him, because all of a sudden Stiles is standing close enough that he can see flecks of hazel in the green of her eyes and now they both realize it. He swallows and tries very hard not to stare at her mouth. “I was being selfish,” he says softly. It’s hard to admit but harder still to hang onto. “My feelings were totally irrelevant and I pushed them on you – you don’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

Lydia presses her lips together, glancing down and then up at him again. Stiles is aware of something passing between them, something that charges the air with an undercurrent that is at once exciting and frightening. But Stiles has pushed and regretted it before; he won’t do it again.

“Can I get you anything?”  he says instead. “An apology latte?”

Lydia’s eyebrows come together in bemusement. “I thought you were closed.”

An easy smile isn’t as hard as he thought it would be. “Good thing you know a guy, right?” Stiles abandons the mop and heads behind the counter. “Vanilla?”

“You’re not digging all that stuff out to make me a coffee when you were just about to pack up,” Lydia informs him, sitting primly at the bar. “It’s so late anyway, it would keep me up all night.”

Stiles glances up from his half-bent position. Lydia has never sat at the bar before. A large part of him is grateful; who knows how much coffee he’d have spilled this year already if she’d chosen that as her spot? “A hot chocolate then.”

She opens her mouth to protest again, but he beats her to it. “Please.” He might sound desperate but he doesn’t care. “I was a jerk and besides, you can keep me company while I finish closing up.”

Lydia presses her lips together again. “Fine,” she says, but she’s smiling.

 

*

 

_“Lydia, meet Roscoe.”_

_“You named your Jeep?”_

_"Because Prada is definitely something you name a dog."_

_"Yes Stiles, a **dog.** __You know, living, breathing, sentient?_ "

_“Let’s discuss semantics in the car, huh? I’d rather not get poured on if I can help it.”_

_“You really don’t have to–”_

_“I felt a raindrop. There’s another one. Of course I have to.”_

 

_*_

 

Her apartment is only down the street, but in this moment Stiles wishes it were further. He can’t stop looking at Lydia in the passenger seat of the jeep, shadow and street light reflecting and shimmering across her face as rain pours down his windows. She props her elbow against the door and stares out into the night. There is something pensive in her expression, something far away, but Stiles is too content to ask. The space of the jeep has never felt smaller, or warmer.

“I’m glad you came in,” he says. Stiles sneaks a glance across the space. Lydia is smiling, a warm and familiar fondness in it that unfurls the tension in the pit of his stomach.

“Me too.”

He pulls into her visitor spot with extreme reluctance. Lightning cracks across the sky and illuminates the building in shocking white light.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” Stiles says before he can talk himself out of it. “Just want to make sure you get in okay.”

To his surprise, Lydia doesn’t protest, just pulls up her hood and pushes her hair back beneath it. “Ready?” she asks, and he nods. There is a stupid childish thrill in his grin. “One, two, three!”

They jump out and Lydia shrieks, laughing as she bolts for the door. Stiles barely remember to lock the jeep before he lurches after her, his long strides catching hers until they reach the awning nearly at the same time. He is almost breathless from the run and this new lightness in his heart. Lydia’s face is flushed, her eyes bright.

“I have an umbrella,” she says as she buzzes them through the inner door. “Take it for your trip back. You can–” They stop in front of her door just down a hall. “You can give it back to me tomorrow. That is, if I don't see Isaac first.”

Stiles is pretty sure his joy is about to break his face. “Tomorrow, absolutely. Fuck Isaac.” She laughs and he's so in love with her that he can barely breathe through it. He only catches sight of a pale blue hall when Lydia reaches for her umbrella just inside the door and hands it to him. “This is great, thank you.”

Part of him doesn't want to leave, but a stronger part of him just wants to keep this, a perfect evening, so Stiles waves stupidly. "Goodnight, Lydia."

She returns the gesture with a wiggle of her fingers. "Goodnight."

He's only a few feet away when he hears her voice again. "Stiles?"

"Yeah?" His heart is thumping hard against his ribs and he can't figure out why. 

Lydia is wearing a peculiar expression when she catches up to him. "Can I ask you something?" He nods automatically. Lydia glances down at the floor and back up again.  _She's nervous,_ he realizes suddenly, and that just makes this feeling worse. "Before," she says, pushing her hair back, "Before you said 'my feelings were irrelevant,' as in, past tense, right?"

Stiles' mouth goes dry. That undercurrent from the cafe surges back up again; this time, he knows, it'll have to go somewhere.

"I– I guess I was just wondering..." Lydia bites her lip. "Are they–are they still...are they still in the past?"

Lydia is looking at him, something guarded and hopeful both at once in her eyes, and Stiles is aware suddenly that he hasn't spoken yet. "No," he manages, sounding oddly hoarse to his own ears but unable to feel embarrassed about it. He steps forward, reaching a surprisingly steady hand up to cradle her face; Lydia leans into his fingers and Stiles feels a sudden rush of falling in his stomach. "No they're not." 

Lydia leans up when he kisses her, wrapping one hand around his wrist and that electricity from her touch shoots up his arm, spreading everywhere. Stiles' free hand dips into the curve of her back when he leans forward, bending her with him. That's it: four points of contact and he already feels like he's drowning. Her lips are soft and cool with rain and he doesn't want to breathe, because that means letting go of this moment and he never wants to do that, ever. 

But eventually they have to. 

Lydia's eyes open slowly, a faint surprise on her face that he just wants to kiss away. He can't stop staring at her lips. 

"Stiles?" 

"Yeah?" he breathes, pushing Lydia's damp hair back with one hand. She presses her lips together, looking more vulnerable suddenly than she has in a long time. 

"Do you want to—"

"Yes." Stiles brushes their lips together again, his neck twinging with the effort required to keep their heads close, but he doesn't care. "Whatever it is, yes."

Lydia's smile is so brilliant it's almost hard to look at. "Come on then."

Her hand is so slight and small in his as she pulls him towards her door, but he can't wait and catches her mouth in the doorway and they tumble through it. Stiles steps out of his shoes through years of adolescent practice, exhaling a laugh when Lydia kicks her boots into a corner of the hall and his shoulders bow in order to keep their lips together. "God, you're so short."

"Shut up," Lydia shoots back, but she's smiling against his mouth as she shoves his jacket and flannel over his shoulders to hit the floor before dropping her own. "What are you going to do about it?"

Stiles just looks at her, sliding both hands beneath her thighs and hoisting her up, walking them both into the wall. Lydia inhales sharply in surprise; her legs wrap immediately around his waist. He grins up at her, but Lydia's eyebrows fly up, clearly accepting the challenge. Her arms slide around his neck and she rocks her hips into his, searing their mouths together. 

Stiles groans; it takes a lot of effort not to drop her. 

"Not so smug now, are we?" she asks. Stiles doesn't reply. He's been staring at the curve of her neck for a year and it's now a breath away from him. He trails a line of kisses there, smiling as Lydia's breath hitches. Her hands fist in his hair when he grazes his teeth over her shoulder, her collarbone. "Stiles."

"Hmm?" he asks, still intent on her skin. 

"We could—" she starts, and stops when he kisses her just behind the ear. "We could be considerably more naked, you know." 

He looks up at her, taller from her vantage point on his hips, her lips flushed and her eyes dark. Stiles is the one holding them up but he has never felt so powerless and so enthralled by the idea of that. "That is very true." 

Lydia points over his shoulder. "Bedroom's that way."

She drags her shirt over her head as they move; he is momentarily distracted by the newly exposed expanses of her ribs, the curves of her breasts. Stiles puts his mouth in the narrow space between them and Lydia makes a noise that causes the growing tightening in his jeans to become borderline unbearable. He can see the outline of her bed in the dark, so Stiles eases them down as carefully as he can. Lydia's back hits the mattress with a soft  _thump._ He works on his jeans with shaky fingers and her hands reach up to drag him the rest of the way.

Stiles is pretty sure he could just kiss her for the rest of his life and be perfectly content.

He manages to pull his shirt off with one hand. Pale light streams in from the window, illuminating Lydia in only her underwear, her hair strewn around her. She looks like a painting, or a dream. His breath gets caught in his throat. It always seems to do that around her.

"What?" she asks, rising up on her elbows to frown at him. Stiles shakes his head.

"Nothing," he says, smiling at her dubious expression. "You're just— you're beautiful."

Lydia bites her lip, glancing away, a blush high on her cheeks. Stiles leans down and takes her chin gently to face him. "You don't believe me, do you?"

She doesn't reply; something fierce takes root in Stiles' chest as he kisses her, hard enough that she nips at his lip. "You are," he says, kissing her shoulder. "You are."

He kisses a path down her stomach, over each of her ribs, tucking his nose into her bellybutton so she laughs and swats at his head. "You are magnificent," he says, drawing her knees gently apart and over his shoulders. "And smart, and thoughtful." Stiles kisses just above her underwear and Lydia goes still. 

He glances up at her. It takes Lydia a moment to keep his gaze. "You okay?" he asks, and she nods. He puts his mouth on her pelvic bone, dragging his teeth over it. The muscle jumps and Lydia hisses. "Do you want me to stop?" Stiles pauses with his fingers hooked on the edges of her damp underwear.

She sits up abruptly and glares down at him. "Don't you fucking dare." 

He laughs and kisses the inner edge of her thigh. "As you wish."

He swallows when Lydia is laid bare in front of him. He kisses her gently, working her slowly, and then harder as Lydia's soft sighs become sharper exhales. Stiles brushes his nose against her clit and Lydia gasps. " _Stiles_."

He slides a finger inside of her with little resistance; she makes a noise that could be a whimper. "Okay?" he asks, sneaking another upward glance. Lydia's flush has spread down her neck and he's nearly ruined at the sight of her. 

She nods sharply. "Another," she says, "please."

Stiles adds a second finger to join his first, down to the last knuckle. He has to give pause when Lydia's head falls back and he finds his eyes glued to the sharp line of her throat. But then he ducks back down, moving his fingers carefully in time his lips and tongue, and she whimpers again. Stiles gains a rhythm and soon Lydia's hips are rocking in his mouth. "Stiles."

It's not a shout, but something needy and desperate. He will never get tired of hearing his name like that. He wraps his free hand around her thigh to pull her closer, pressing against her clit. He curls his fingers and Lydia's back arches. "Stiles, _Stiles_   _Stiles_ _—"_

Her legs tremble as she comes down.Stiles wipes his mouth and presses a kiss to the side of her knee. As he crawls up towards her, Lydia has her arm thrown over her eyes, her chest heaving as she breathes. Stiles runs his fingers through her hair, mesmerized by the dark strands. "You know, I've thought about that for a long time."

Lydia's eyes drop again, but she's smiling. "Good?"

He leans down to kiss her, his stomach dropping as Lydia's tongue chases the taste of herself in his mouth. "Amazing."

She grins, reaching into her bedside table and brandishing a condom. "Good, because I've been thinking about this all day."

Stiles is too stunned to do anything but follow as Lydia leans up over him, unclipping her bra and dragging Stiles' boxers off of him. He stares at the fall of her curls and the shape of her breasts as she straddles him, but all thoughts go white when she lays warm hands around him. " _Lydia."_

"Keep it together," she says, her smile sharper now as she rolls the condom onto him with care. "Equivalent exchange is important sometimes, you know."

Stiles groans, surging up to kiss her so hard that their teeth nearly clack together. Her hair behind her ears is as soft as he's always imagined it to be. "You did _not_ just make a Full Metal Alchemist reference."

Lydia shrugs. "Scott has excellent taste, what can I say?"

"Let's not talk about Scott right now." Lydia's laugh breaks off as he helps ease her down onto him with a hand on her hip. Stiles has to bite back another groan. "You good?" he asks, though even that question is difficult because his brain is probably about to short circuit at any second. Lydia nods, her mouth tight, and there is small thrill in the notion that she's having as much trouble keeping it together as he is.

Stiles sits up a little straighter, anchoring Lydia against him with his hand on the small of her back. He can feel the knobs of her spine against his palm. His hand is nearly as wide as her entire back; the truth of just how small she is, just how vulnerable they both are right now, makes it hard to breathe. Stiles wants, more than anything, to do this right. 

Because that means he might get another chance. 

Lydia cards her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair; she is hot and tight around him and Stiles shivers as they begin to rock slowly together. He leans forward to catch her breast in his mouth, sliding his tongue over her nipple until it's hard against his teeth. Lydia moans, arching against him, and Stiles nearly forgets to keep moving. He does the same to the other until Lydia is gasping his name again. Stiles groans when her lips and teeth find purchase on his shoulder; the line between pain and pleasure is thin and nearly rolls his eyes back into his head.

"Lydia," he gasps. He wants to ask a question but his brain can't form the words. Thankfully Lydia seems to be able to read his mind. She nods, kissing him even as he wraps his arm further around her to twist and press her back into the mattress. He settles between her legs and leans over her. Her eyes are wide and bright in the dark. Stiles can see his own desire reflected back in them, but something else too, something small and soft and so important that he hesitates. 

Lydia smiles, reaching up with both hands to tangle in his hair. "I want this," she says softly, her kiss gentle. "I want you."

He eases into her carefully, looking for the rhythm he'd had earlier. He seems to find it when Lydia's breath begins to shake out; she draws her leg up, pulling him further in. "There," she says, pushing up to match him. " _Right there_." 

" _Lydia_ , fuck _—"_ Stiles groans against her neck, nearly dizzy with the sound of her gasps, of their hips snapping together in the dark.

“Stiles, _please.”_ She keens brokenly in his ear and he is nearly undone. He presses closer, moving faster, sealing his mouth over the spot where her heartbeat races. Lydia’s nails dig into his shoulders.

" _Yes!_ _Stiles, yes!"_

And he's gone.

When the whiteness in Stiles' brain finally starts dissipating, he has enough presence of mind to roll off of Lydia and dispose of the condom in the trash beside her desk, staring at it for a long moment.  _That actually just happened._ He rolls back over to find Lydia sitting up, her hair pulled over one shoulder as she braids, exposing the long line of her spine. Stiles leans forward and presses his mouth there before he can give it too much thought, counting the vertebrae as they rise up towards her neck. _One, two, three, four._

Lydia shivers and he grins victoriously against her skin.

"Hi," he manages, smiling stupidly at Lydia over her shoulder. She puts a hand to his cheek and he kisses her palm. 

"Hi," she replies softly. Stiles watches as she rises, picking his t-shirt up off the floor. The expanse of her back disappears beneath it and he is struck by how intimate it feels, even after everything they've just done. Lydia disappears down the hall and soon he hears a toilet flush. Glasses clink a few minutes later, and Lydia returns to her room, her face free of makeup and holding a glass of water. She offers it to him and Stiles drinks gratefully, passing it back for Lydia to finish. 

"Do you want to stay?" she asks. There is a vulnerability to the question; Lydia leans into his palm again when he reaches for her cheek and his heart swells.

"If you'll have me."

She just kisses him in reply.

 

 

*

 

 

Malia punches him,  _hard._

"Damn it Malia!" 

"What are you  _doing_ here?" she demands. "You're telling me that you just had one of the best nights of your entire life with a girl you've been in love with for over a year and you came into  _work_ today?"

Stiles rubs at his shoulder, glaring. "If we're being clear about things, I told  _Scott._ You were eavesdropping. And yes, I came into work _—_ Lydia has an early lab today. She'll be by later."

Her grin is as wolfish as it's ever been. "Nice job, idiot."

Stiles makes a face. "Thanks?" 

"So," Kira interjects. "Are you guys a thing now?"

Stiles just stares at them. "Why do I even have friends?" he asks, throwing his hands up in the air. 

Scott hands him a fresh stack of to-go cups and the name pen. "To tell your life-changing news to, obviously. This is amazing, dude! We're just happy for you."

Stiles brandishes the name pen at him, pointing at Malia and Kira in turn. "I swear to god if any of you so much as innuendo when she's here, I will kill you."

Malia just laughs. 

 

 

*

 

 

He's weirdly nervous by the time Lydia's class ends and she's due to come by; thankfully the morning rush hasn't changed at all in the past week and most of his shift goes by without him thinking about it too much. 

Sort of.

"Stop that," Kira admonishes when she passes him reorganizing the sugars a second time. "You said you were both happy this morning, so what's there to worry about?"

"She changed her mind?" Stiles offers immediately. "She regrets everything, she hates me, Malia's going to kick my ass for losing her a potential new best friend besides you?"

Kira looks like she's going to laugh at him. She doesn't though, and Stiles is grateful. "It's going to be fine," Kira says. "Promise."

There isn't any more time to panic though, because the front door chimes and Lydia steps through. It's as familiar a sight as it's ever been, but deep down in Stiles' gut he knows; nothing will ever be the same. She smiles when she sees him, and his heart stumbles. 

"Hi," she says. Stiles finds himself struggling to form words.

"Hey," he gets out finally. "Do you _—_ do you want to wait for me? My shift ends in like, ten minutes." 

Lydia smiles down at the floor and up at him. "Sure." 

She goes to turn away, but Stiles grabs for her hand before he can think better of it. "Lydia?"

"Hmm?" 

"Last night _—_ " Stiles starts, and while Lydia's cheeks go pink, she doesn't pull her hand away. If anything, she squeezes his fingers. "Last night when I told you that I'd been thinking about that for a long time, I _—"_ _Don't keep this in your head._ "I didn't just mean...I didn't just mean that." Lydia tilts her head as Stiles stumbles on. "I meant this _—_ _"_ He gestures between them with his free hand, and then at the space of the cafe. "Here. And you know, not here."

Lydia's lips twitch as Stiles runs a hand through his hair. "I want everything with you," he says finally. Stiles finds he can't quite look at her, until Lydia steps forward and puts a hand on his chest. Déjà vu pitches him back, but then Lydia's lips land on his and he's kissing her back instinctively. 

She's smiling when she pulls away, rocking back on her heels. "Me too."

He leans down to catch her mouth again until Malia bangs on the back sink. 

"Can I get you anything?" he asks. "Medium nonfat latte?"

Lydia purses her lips. He wants to kiss her and it thrills him that he can. 

"Can you make it caramel?" She smiles up at him and he's warm all over. "I think it's gonna be a good day."

 

 

*

 

 

_"Hey Lydia, how was class?"_

_"Stiles, hey. It was fine, nothing spectacular. But I want you to meet someone. This is Allison."_

_"Nice to meet finally meet you! I've heard so much about _—_ Scott?_

_Scott?"_

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I've been this nervous about any of my work — which then became a very concentrated nervousness about the sex scenes, which I've never written nor really planned to, but just sort of happened as I was writing. Sorry if it's terrible and doesn't get you hot under the collar, but let me know if it does, I suppose?
> 
> Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it. It was, when it was not a major point of stress over the past month, fun to write. But thank you most especially to Kris for cheerleading me through and not letting me give up and beta-ing when I was too nervous to give it to anyone else. I couldn't have done it without you girl; love you. 
> 
> The fest, as always, is amazing. Can't wait to do it again.


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